


Just the Heat

by thisiszircon



Category: Ashes to Ashes (UK TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27353746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiszircon/pseuds/thisiszircon
Summary: An unexpected heat wave has left everyone at Fenchurch East feeling irritable.  Gene has a plan to deal with the way passions are flaring.
Relationships: Alex Drake/Gene Hunt
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	Just the Heat

It isn't just the heat. Gene's fairly sure about that.

Oh, the heat's a part of it. It makes them all feel prickly and uncomfortable and fractious, makes the everyday tensions of the job a bit less manageable. And of course the heat has other ways of affecting Gene's working environment. Like the looser, lighter clothes that Alex Drake has taken to wearing. Like the way she's undone one more button than usual on her blouse. Like the shine of perspiration on the skin her plunging neckline now reveals...

But it isn't just the heat. It's the arguments, and the challenges, and the months and months of not being able to put his finger on whatever the hell it is that's going on between them. Every time he thinks he's getting to grips with it, it shifts. This happens over and over: an endless series of by-now familiar moods. Sometimes he and Bolly can get through eight or nine of the bloody things in a single day.

Most recognisable, at least of late, is the irritation. Hours will go by when they can't look at each other without eyes flashing and patience snapping. It never takes long before they're both slinging insults, and the insults always escalate to become more personal, more hurtful, more unapologetically cruel. Then the irritation will sharpen into anger: a vicious anger that makes being in the same room as each other an extremely bad idea. Only something happens – something always happens – and they find themselves shrugging the anger away. Or at least boxing it up and labelling it 'ammunition for future battles'.

But they aren't all about the conflict. There's the good stuff too: support, trust, teamwork. Some days, when they find their groove, they end up so in tune that they can finish each other's sentences. When they get a decent collar there's a mood of celebration that combines with the inevitable end-of-the-day drinking. And the flirtation. Increasingly unsubtle flirtation. Whatever _is_ going on between them, it would seem it's a case of 'when' and not 'if'.

But the ceasefire lasts only so long before one of them – and he's sure it's usually her – says or does something that jabs them back into irritation. One minute, finishing each other's sentences. The next, barely speaking the same language. And there they go again.

Interestingly, his libido is independent of the mood-cycle. When she's smiling at him across a table at Luigi's, all drunken, half-lidded eyes, he wants her. When she's snapping her irritation, spouting all those clever long words, he wants her. When she's shouting, so angry he's concerned he might get punched again, he wants her. And when the anger has been set aside, and he knows that neither of them are happy it was there in the first place, and there's a certain look that passes between them – a look of weary mutual-apology – _god_ , but he wants her.

Months and months. It's becoming interminable.

Only now they're stuck in a late summer heat wave that means all this tension has been ramped up to the nth degree. He's sitting at his desk at half past seven on a Friday evening, watching as she paces back and forth by the office door. She's lecturing him on something – he thinks it's to do with paperwork; he stopped listening a while ago – and all he can think about is the sweat on the skin between her breasts, and what it would be like to tear that blouse open and push her down on his desk and taste her there.

Well, that, and how uncomfortable it is to be in possession of an awkwardly-trapped erection.

Alex pauses and blows at the hair on her forehead, then she pulls at the neck of her blouse and tries to blow in that direction too. Gene manages not to react, but only because he's spent the last ten minutes perfecting a good, solid scowl.

She looks at him and her hands go to her hips. The blouse pulls taut across her chest. He can see her nipples through the material, peaking hard, and when she closes her eyes for a moment he wonders if she's liking the friction.

"You aren't even listening, are you?" she protests. The flash in her eyes means that she's _this_ close to moving their mood-cycle on from 'irritated' to 'so angry I can't look at you'. And he is not having it. Not this time. The tensions are mounting once again, and he's had enough.

So he changes the subject. "Feeling chilly, are we, Bols?"

She startles at the unexpected comment – even in the evenings, the sultry air outside is pushing the mercury towards thirty degrees – and then frowns her confusion. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"No. Just investigating the evidence." He lowers his gaze and looks at her chest.

Alex hesitates, then drops her chin in an attempt to see what he's seeing. When she figures it out, she stands straight and glares at him. What she _doesn't_ do, he's interested to note, is fold her arms self-consciously or walk away in a huff. He's a copper; it's his job to notice and interpret the details. And the nipple-evidence, combined with the way she's deemed it necessary to come in here and have a go at him for some stupid, made-up reason at this time on a Friday, not to mention the very recent memory of yesterday evening's even-more-direct-than-usual flirtation? Well, it all seems to suggest a theory.

At this point he's sure he is not the only person in the room who's feeling the heat.

"Great," she snaps. "I've been wasting my breath, have I? Since you have the professional focus of a pubescent fourteen year old?"

There's a delicate shine above her upper lip, and her cheeks have flushed prettily. Alex Drake has been found out. And she's _still_ standing with her hands on her hips and her nipples trying to poke holes through her blouse. It's as if she's caught in a stand-off with her own hormones. Trying to glare the arousal she's feeling down. He almost wants to laugh. He certainly can't help the brief rush of affection he feels for this absurd, annoying, captivating woman.

Gene tears his gaze away from her long enough to look through the windows to the outer office. Most of the lads have already scarpered in the direction of the nearest licensed premises. He can see Chris and Shaz leaving together. Ray looks like he won't be far behind.

Good enough.

Gene returns his attention to Alex. He has decided to ignore her last comment, since their talent for escalating insults isn't going to make either of them feel any better. Instead, he leans back in his chair as if he's quite relaxed – which, as his hard-on chafes against a pulled-tight crease in his undershorts, is definitely not the case – and he narrows his eyes.

"See, the evidence suggests that you're either cold – which, frankly, doesn't seem all that likely – or you're feeling...frisky," he tells her.

He folds his hands across his chest and considers her. He keeps his gaze steady, no glints, no suggestive eyebrows, nothing but a flat and unrelenting stare. He's long since discovered that she finds such attention stimulating; that's what the rising flush to her cheeks and the wide-blown pupils seem to suggest, anyway.

Alex stares back. Her throat moves as she swallows. She blinks a couple of times, quite rapidly.

Oh yes, she's on board.

"Which also seems odd," he continues, as if they aren't having much more interesting body-language conversations, "since you've been rabbiting on about paperwork for the last ten minutes. I mean, I like to keep an open mind when it comes to the kinky stuff, but I never heard of that one. What is it? Some sort of pro forma-fetish? Admin-philia?"

She tries to neutralise the tension with an eye-roll. Her heart clearly isn't in it because it comes off as weak; when she's on form, the woman could eye-roll for England.

"You're being ridiculous," she says.

He ignores the remark. "Unless you're feeling frisky _in spite_ of the lecturing, not because of it. Is that what's going on here? Either way – not complaining. Nicest thing I've had to look at all week."

Alex gives a sigh – it's her 'give me strength' sigh – but he detects a stutter at the end of it. He feels a momentary burst of sympathy; they're both of them as wound up as the other. The only difference is that he's had enough of pretending otherwise.

"If that's all you've got," she says with a not-very-convincing attempt at dismissal, "I'm going home."

"Actually, I don't think you are."

She pauses by the door when he says those words, then she turns back. She's still trying to look exasperated, but her breath is coming too fast. Gene has the impression that the tension is just about nudging critical mass for her, too.

"Was that a threat?" she asks. The word has a tremor to its delivery.

He shakes his head. "No. Don't play those games. Not my cup of tea." He indulges in a slow look up and down her body. He has always known she has a gorgeous figure – slender without losing any sense of the voluptuous in all the best places – and his desire to peel away those clothes and taste her skin is becoming urgent. "I'm just saying. I don't think you're going anywhere."

Gene draws a deep breath and meets her eyes. He has no idea whether his desire for her is as obvious to her as it is to him – he has, after all, spent decades perfecting his mask of implacability – but she knows him better than most, and human behaviour is supposed to be her area of expertise.

"Feel free to prove me wrong," he adds.

Alex turns away to the office door and looks through the glass. In the main CID office, everyone but Ray has left. Ray has a telephone receiver clamped between his ear and his shoulder as he scribbles down a note. His battered old briefcase is standing on the desk ready for the off.

There's a brief interlude when everything hangs in the balance. Gene watches her as she stands there, the profile of her face harshly accentuated by the too-bright overhead lights. Then Alex's shoulders move and her chin rises, and the decision is made. She takes a moment and wets her mouth, then she turns back to him.

"If there's something you want to say to me, fire away," she says.

He hides a smile. So she wants him to work for this. She's testing him. Seeing if he'll back off when she demands something clear-cut.

He is not going to back off.

"You look tense," he tells her.

"We've spent most of the week arguing – what do you expect?"

Gene gives a shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "We're not arguing now."

"Then–"

"Far too tense. I mean it. You need to relax. Otherwise you're going to go bang, and I can't have that. I'll never get the stains out the floor tiles."

Her eyes flash. "Let me get this straight – are you telling me to _calm down_?" She looks infuriated by the idea, or at least she tries to. But her nipples remain enthusiastically erect as they point his way, and there's a glimmer of humour – maybe even mischief – in her eyes.

"Not the words I'd choose," he says, "since I'm not a complete pillock." Her eyes sparkle even more. "But I can't argue with the sentiment. It's been a stressful week. Calmness seems like a good idea. Spot of relaxation."

"Relaxation." She's trying to sound dubious. She is not succeeding.

"Mmm. If we try very hard, we could get there. Eventually. Maybe there's a way." He lifts his eyebrows at her. "Might make us both feel better."

Beyond her there's movement in the outer office: Ray is on his way out. He calls, "Night, Guv! Ma'am!" though the sound of his voice is muffled by the closed office door. He offers a half-wave before he shoulders open the door into the corridor, not even looking their way, as if there's nothing at all unusual going on. As if the world isn't about to change for the better. Little does he know.

The outer office door slams shut. Gene returns his attention to Alex.

"And what are you suggesting?" she asks.

She's still testing the water. Maybe she expects the embarrassed laugh and swift exit that their more-direct-than-usual flirtation tends to peak with. But Gene has progressed beyond flirtation. His pulse is starting to race; he knows this for a fact because he can feel each and every heartbeat thud along his cock. He is so hard for Alex Drake that it hurts, and the need to pretend that this is not the case is only making things worse. So yes, flirtation is very definitely yesterday's news. Right now he's too caught up in this erotic charge to be anything other than direct.

"One thing springs to mind," he tells her. He makes sure his gaze is steady. 

"Tell me," she whispers.

"Just a thought. I could strip you naked, spread you over my desk, find out how many different ways I can make you climax."

Her eyes widen. He's surprised her. He's surprised himself.

Maybe it _is_ this heat.

"Gene," she whispers, but her throat clamps shut before she can say another word.

"To be clear – I'm not talking about a swift shuffle. I'm talking about the kind of intense, unbridled pleasure that will leave you unable to walk straight. Or see straight. Or think straight." He's breathing hard, now. He's turning himself on, saying all this stuff out loud. Saying it to Alex; knowing that she likes it.

"Oh god," she breathes. Her body shivers. She captures her lower lip with her teeth, and her eyelids fall half-closed as if the fantasy he has conjured is playing out in her mind's eye.

"I want to turn you into a quivering wreck," he declares, gaining confidence as he sees the effect these words of his are having. "I want to smell you and taste you and hear you when you're in the throes of passion. I want to see how you smile when your body is satisfied." He shifts in his chair, desperate to adjust the awkward position of his erection, but all he manages to do is make the throbbing more noticeable. Gene swallows before lust and longing reduce his voice to a hoarse whisper. "I want that very, very badly."

Her eyes close. "So do I," she whispers.

"Glad to hear it." He waits until she can look at him again. "Well, then, s'pose it's up to you," he says. "You can go home. Have a shower, sort yourself out." He lets his eyebrow flicker. "Or you can pull down that blind. Let me take care of you."

Between shallow breaths she murmurs, "Gene..."

"As much or as little as you want. I've got two good hands," he says. "I've got a mouth and a tongue. And if it makes you feel any better about them frisky nipples of yours – I've got a hard-on that's trying to lift this desk off the ruddy floor."

Alex swallows, wets her mouth. The tip of a pink tongue...and he imagines it tracing the head of his cock while she looks up at him coquettishly, and her slender hand strokes him, pumps, squeezes–

A noise distracts him from his reverie: the noise of a blind being drawn against a window. He blinks, just to be sure he hasn't nodded off and found himself dreaming about her again, but when she's done with the blind on the door, she turns to the ones on the other windows. Moments later the office is sequestered behind this flimsy barrier from the rest of the station. From the rest of the world.

By the time she turns to face him, her surprise has morphed into hunger. There's frustration there too, tinged with desperation. He wonders how long it has been for her. He wonders if she sometimes tries to bring herself off, only to fail. From the look of her right now, the idea seems plausible.

When he doesn't move, she frowns. "Gene?" For a moment she looks frightened, as if she's wondering whether this will turn out to be some kind of prank.

He shakes his head at the unspoken fear. "I need you to tell me," he says quietly. Patience is so rarely one of his virtues, but this is the right time for them to be unequivocal.

Her flush deepens, but she nods. "Okay. Yes, I think that sounds lovely." Her mouth is dry and she has to clear her throat. That soft, self-conscious sound does things to him. "I want you to do that," she says. "To, er, take care of the tension."

He considers her a moment. He's starting to see what she needs. It isn't so much about relinquishing her perpetual need for control; it's about trusting someone else to take the weight of it for a while. With Alex Drake, that's going to be a fine line to navigate. He's rarely good at predicting the things that will cause her mood to do a U-turn, but in the current context he's more than willing to give it a go.

So he says, "Take your blouse off."

Alex gives a small smile as the game is thus defined, but she plays along. She unbuttons her blouse, pulls it from the waist of her skirt, tugs it down her arms and drops it to the spare office chair. Her bra is cream-coloured silk, no lacy bits that he can see: perhaps because they'd itch like crazy in this heat. Not that it matters; those breasts don't need an ornate frame in order to look good. Those breasts are unadorned perfection.

"Brush your thumbs over your nipples," he says.

"What happened to your two good hands?" she asks, though she does as he suggests.

He ignores her. "More," he says. "Harder."

Alex pinches at her nipples. She gives a gasp and her head lolls back as she pulls the peaking flesh. She squirms where she's standing. He wonders how wet she already is. His cock throbs with the thought.

"Take your bra off," he tells her. His tone of voice has become gravelled, but that can't be helped. It's all he can manage to keep his hands neutral and visible, folded over his chest.

Alex hesitates, then she looks uncertainly at the closed door behind her.

"They've all gone," he says. "It's just you and me, Bols."

She turns back to him, arms already reaching behind for the clasp to her bra. She unhooks it and draws the straps down her arms, then she drops it on top of her discarded blouse. The overhead light reflects the perspiration on her skin that he glimpsed earlier, only now his view is unfettered.

God, but she is beautiful.

"Touch yourself again," he instructs. "Show me what you like."

Her eyes fall closed and her chin lifts, and there's a frown of concentration playing over her brow as she uses the very tips of her fingers to tickle her breasts. As she nudges at her nipples, her breathing catches. She cups and squeezes herself, thumbing at the peaks.

Gene watches. He's not sure he's ever been more turned on in his life. "Take your skirt off," he says.

Her eyes open and she looks at him, gleaming, wanton. At present, he is the one controlling the direction of this encounter, but he can see in her a growing sense of assurance. This is good. This is a relief. He spends hours every day as a figure of authority. To be required to play the dominant between the sheets – or over the desk, for that matter – just makes him feel weary.

Alex unzips her skirt and pushes it to the floor, then she kicks it away. She stands before him clad only in her knickers and the strappy sandals he knows she's wearing but can't see because the desk is in the way. He needs to change that. Alex Drake has the most incredible pair of legs he's ever had the good fortune to gaze upon, and to see them go all the way up, ankle to undies...

He stands up and reaches to take off his necktie, already slung low across his chest thanks to the two top buttons he has undone. He hasn't been wearing his suit jacket for hours. Alex looks down at his groin, and whatever she can see there makes her wet her mouth again. His cock twitches in approval.

Gene moves around his desk to look at her. She waits for him because she likes this game. He takes his time with the looking: sandals with a bit of a heel, and those endless legs, and a tiny scrap of silk. He does his best to burn the vision of her into his memory. He never wants to forget the way she looks in this moment.

His desk is relatively clutter-free, and he steps around her to clear those obstacles that remain. Then he moves back. She watches him the whole while, and he can almost _see_ her need to be touched by him, like heat-haze over her body.

"Sit up on the desk," he tells her. She does so, and leans back on her arms. He stands before her, just out of reach. "Part your thighs."

She swallows at that. "Gene–"

"I know you want to," he says, and his voice is decisive. "Spread those thighs for me, Alex."

She moans on her exhale. Then she shuffles as she moves her thighs apart. The narrow silken barrier between them does not disguise her excitement. The faint, sweet scent of her body is in the sultry air, and Gene decides that if she isn't calling his name in ecstasy within the next five minutes then there's a good chance he'll expire.

"Do you think about me?" he asks her, moving closer. He reaches to undo the rest of the buttons of his shirt. "Do you think about what we'd be like together?"

Her breathing catches before she says, "Yes."

"Do you touch yourself when you think about that?"

Her flushed cheeks darken further. "Yes."

"Do you have orgasms, thinking about us together?"

" _Yes_. God. Gene – please, please touch me–"

"Do you say my name when you come?" he insists.

Her head falls back and her expression contorts, and he's not sure whether she's more aroused or distressed. "Yes! God, yes, I do. _Please_."

Gene rips his shirt off and throws it to the side. Naked to the waist, he steps between her thighs and reaches to pull her against him. Alex cries out, and her legs wrap around him, and she's snug against his groin and already doing her best to find some friction. Her head is still thrown back, and he leans in and nuzzles between her breasts until he can run his tongue up the hollow and taste her skin.

He's spent days, thinking about doing that. This small, personal victory feels intoxicating.

Meanwhile Alex has aligned herself with the bulge of his erection and is rocking against him. She moans pleasure when he nudges her just right. She's trembling with need. That's fine with him. He's not going to assume that one orgasm will be enough, and like he told her, he's got two good hands and a mouth as well, and variety is supposed to be the spice of life. After all, the better the job he does this evening, the more likely she'll be up for a rematch.

He moves his face to one side and finds a nipple, which he draws into his mouth and teases with his tongue. He's thrusting in time with her rocking motion, rubbing his cock against her through their clothes. The slick silk of her knickers slips with the back-and-forth, and she's moaning every time the ridge of his erection catches her where she's sensitive. Her legs lift up in an attempt to increase the pressure. He grabs her under her knees, and Alex falls back across his desk, propped at her elbows. She looks dazedly at him as he straightens up and coaxes her legs higher until she can rest her ankles at his shoulders.

Turns out that his desk is an excellent height for this. He leans over her, one hand on her hip, one on the surface of his desk for support, and he grinds himself against her. She squirms and undulates in response.

"Mmm – just there?" he murmurs.

"Oh god," she gasps. Her hips are starting to shudder wildly, as though they have a life of their own. "God, oh god, oh god..."

Mercilessly, he stills her even as she strains for the orgasm that is within reach. She makes a frustrated sound of complaint but she stops moving.

He leans in, then rolls his groin to tease. Alex's eyes open and her head lifts so she can glare at him. He can't hide his smile behind one of his usual scowls because seeing her flushed and aroused is filling him up with feelings that are by no means defined by a simple need for sexual release. He pushes himself against her, drawing the sensations out, moving more slowly than she wants, and the heat between her legs feels delicious even through layers of clothes.

"All week," he tells her as their bodies slide and her gasps are coloured by moans of pleasure, "all week I've been watching you. Thinking about you. Wanting you." He sweeps his left hand up her leg, thigh to ankle, then back down again. "Every time you pull your blouse away from your neck, I think about trailing ice cubes over your skin. Chasing after them with my mouth. Tasting every inch of you."

"Gene," she says. The sound is part entreaty, part encouragement.

He lets his hand sweep under her thigh, tracing the edge of her knickers, then his fingertips trail feathery touches over that part of her gusset that isn't busy being rubbed by the hard, hidden length of his cock. She gasps, but it's a welcoming sound. He can't help himself. He slips a finger underneath the silk and strokes the slippery flesh he finds there. The scent of her body in the air grows more intense. He pushes the tip of his finger inside her. She breathes a stuttered moan. He quickens his hips and lets her move against him again, his right hand steadying and guiding as she chases her pleasure.

It is exactly what she needs. Less than half a minute goes by before she gives a jolt and then shudders into climax, and her accompanying cry is, "Oh fuck _Gene_..." Long seconds follow as she moans with each accompanying surge of bliss. He holds himself still and lets her choose how much contact she needs in order to draw the pleasure out.

The moans soften into laboured breaths. He's careful as he draws back and lowers her legs to hang from the edge of his desk, because nothing will kill an afterglow faster than too much pressure on hypersensitive flesh. While her breathing settles, he reaches for her knickers. He doesn't have to say anything; she lifts her hips and lets him tug them down her legs. She's naked on his desk, and he's pretty sure he'll be masturbating to the image in his mind for years to come.

He waits until her breathing has steadied, then he says, "Do you want some more?"

Her head comes up and she arches a brow. There's no more inhibition here. The sight makes him smile.

"Well, you've taken the edge off, I'll admit that," she tells him. "But, er...I could go again." The look in her eyes tells him that she doesn't need him to be the one in control anymore.

"Swivel round," he suggests. He moves back around his desk to his chair and sits down again, only this time he unbuckles his belt and unfastens his flies first. A swift hand in his shorts at least lets him straighten out his hard-on, which is a major relief Alex spins on her backside to face him, then she scoots forward. One of her strappy sandals comes to rest on the arm of his chair. She's lifted her knee to do this, and her other leg spreads invitingly. Gene smooths his hand up her shin and takes a good look. Her intimate hair is dark, curling, and it surrounds the glistening pinkness of her labia like gift-wrap.

"Blimey, Alex, you've got a beautiful cunt," he marvels.

"If you like it, give it a kiss," she says back.

He narrows his eyes at her boldness, but only because he really, _really_ likes it. Then he turns his head and presses a kiss at the inside of her knee. He leans forward as he trails kisses along her thigh, and Alex gives a pleased, thoughtful hum as she relaxes back on his desk. He uses a hand on her other leg, nudging to spread her wider as he does so, caressing his way closer and closer, just as his lips are doing.

He touches her with a finger first: a delicate stroke. She opens easily under the pressure, so he pushes inside. Her breath starts to come harder. He withdraws, pushes again. Alex tries to thrust herself against him, but he holds her still and adds another finger, and he nuzzles over her groin until his lips find the swell of her clitoris. He captures it in a teasing kiss. Her vocal reaction is filled with raw, visceral desire.

He's dreamed about this. He's dreamed about pleasuring her with his mouth while he's sitting at this desk, only in his dreams she never tasted or sounded this good. When he glances up her body, she's arching back, propped on one arm, her free hand busy at her breast. Uninhibited. Magnificent. He admires a woman who knows what she wants.

So he encourages her to move, just enough to catch the rhythm she needs. He learned decades ago that the trick to oral sex is patience. As he proceeds through his repertoire of techniques, he pays attention to each of her responses. She makes a noise of complaint every time his tongue leaves her clitoris to trace the shape of her, but he learns quickly that she relishes the anticipation as she waits for his mouth to find its way back again. Pleasure is always so much more intense when it builds slowly. She knows this as well as he does, and she lets him take his time. When her body begins to strain, he eases off and gives her a few moments to rest. He works out that she loves the vibration when he closes his lips around her clit and hums. She gives a surprised murmur of delight when he sucks her labia between his teeth and nibbles very gently; he is certain no one has ever done that for her before. As her excitement builds, her legs spread wider and her rhythm quickens. Lower down, his slow-stroking fingers are covered with the slickness of her arousal, and they've found the place where a gentle curl, deep inside, is so unbearably good that her moans grow abandoned.

He waits his moment and then closes his lips around her and flutters his tongue back and forth. She comes with a protracted cry, and her hips briefly leave the desk before she slumps back again, trembling.

He's fairly sure he can call that a success, so he sits back and wipes a hand over his mouth. He can smell her on his skin; he's so madly aroused himself that he's a heartbeat away from reaching for his cock and following her into orgasm. But he doesn't do that. When he comes tonight, he's going to be buried up to the hilt in Alex Drake. Gene closes his eyes and counts to ten, and keeps his breathing steady.

The urge for release passes: one of the benefits of no longer being seventeen years old. His composure reclaimed, he opens his eyes.

She's flat on her back across his desk. Her ribs rise and fall with her slowing breaths. On the far side of his desk her head has tipped off the edge. It's as though there is no power in her muscles anymore. He wonders whether he has broken her.

"I'd sit up and smile at you," she murmurs in a delightfully mellow tone. "But I can't seem to move."

Gene does the smiling for her – mainly because there's no one looking to catch him in the act – and he presses another kiss to her knee. "You don't look all that comfy there, sweetheart."

"Mmm. No, I'm not."

He sets her leg down from the chair-arm and pushes the chair back to stand up. Then he reaches for her hands and pulls her up into a sitting position. She's loose and floppy in his arms when he catches her, and she's wearing the promised smile. She gives a happy sigh.

"Thank you," she tells him. "That was really, really lovely."

"We're not done yet," he replies. Then he frowns. "God, tell me we're not done yet."

The smile widens and her boneless stance strengthens. "You honestly think I'd leave you high and dry?" she asks. She touches his face with what feels like tenderness, and something in his chest squeezes. "What do you want? Because I've got two good hands, and a mouth, and–"

He cups her face and draws her close, and for the very first time he kisses Alex Drake's lips. She makes a sound, a sobbing sound that could be surrender, and kisses him back. Their tongues touch and then stroke. She hooks one leg around him to draw him closer to her, and he wonders at how significant it feels simply to take her in his arms. Surely this sense of potency is odd, given the intimacies they've already enjoyed this evening?

When they break for air, he moves down to kiss her neck. They seem to have turned a sexual game of tension-and-release into lovemaking, and he can't find it in himself to disapprove.

"Gene," she breathes into his hair.

"Mmm?"

"My arse has gone numb."

He pulls back, looks at her rueful expression and then barks a laugh. He pulls her up off the desk to stand before him and says, "You want me to give it a rub?"

She tilts her head. "Normally I'd answer that with a glare. Tonight I'll say – god, yes please."

He smirks and, feeling a touch wicked, turns her around. He admires the view he hasn't yet had chance to enjoy, and reaches to massage her bottom. Alex leans on his desk, almost like she's daring him to indulge in one of his most oft-revisited fantasies, and he interrupts his caresses with a swift spank, not sharp enough to sting. She wriggles in response: a nice, positive reaction that fills his head with ideas.

"Better?" he asks. He's growing bolder with his massage now: letting his thumb stroke the cleft of her buttocks, moving his hand lower, under her, sliding intimately.

"Mmm – feels like the ache goes deeper, though. Have you got anything, could help?" She looks over her shoulder.

Coquettishly.

Gene exhales hard, and along with the breath come the words, "Fucking hell, Alex." He's already fumbling his trousers down to his knees, and his shorts along with them. After these long minutes dedicated to the pleasuring of Alex Drake, it's almost a surprise to recognise that his own time has come.

Alex bends to support herself at the elbows on his desk, and she's still looking back at him, shameless and sexy and _god_ , so bloody natural with it all that he can't quite reconcile that look with what they're doing.

"Oh, nice," she says when he's taken his cock in his hand. "That is very, very nice."

She turns away and offers herself with a small murmur of anticipation, and he grasps her hip and uses the tip of his cock to stroke her, just as his fingers were doing a moment ago. Normally he'd take his time, maybe tease her into fresh excitement, but the sight of their bodies touching like this is too much. He positions himself and – with a grunt – he pushes inside her. She presses back, her breath catching as they join.

Gene takes hold of her other hip, and he tests their union with slow deliberation. Her wetness glistens all over him as he withdraws, and it looks good. He can already sense his balls threatening to tighten. Feels like he's been on the brink for far too long.

When he's buried again, she gives a low moan and her hips move against him in a tiny circle. She doesn't sound like a woman who's had her fill; not yet. And he _knows_ he wants to hear her come one more time tonight.

He leans in and reaches under her, captures a breast and teases one of those treacherous, wonderful nipples that started all of this. He thrusts, slow and languid, because he knows that the moment he quickens his pace this will all be over. It seems she likes what he's doing.

"Think you could come for me again?" he asks, voice pitched low and seductive though he didn't intend to speak that way.

She answers with a groan of encouragement, since he's just moved his hand from her breast and reached between her legs. He holds his fingers against her and lets the rocking motion of their bodies provide pressure where it's needed in rhythmic pulses. Gene leans back again, just to be able to appreciate the view.

"Bloody hell, Alex, we look good together," he says breathlessly.

"We feel...pretty good too." She has to time the words between the pants. "You know – I've dreamed...about you bending...bending me over this desk."

He's dreamed it, masturbated over it, tried to capture the image for posterity in doodled art. Nothing compares. His skin is covered with a sheen of sweat now, though the temperature outside is finally dropping as the sunlight fades to dusk. There's a breeze picking up through the open window, and the cooling sensation is nearly as blissful as the encompassing heat of Alex Drake's body. His thrusts quicken. It's these sounds she's making: uninhibited moans, gasps, sobs, and the way – _fuck_ – the way she's now breathing his name. He's so close.

Too close. "Alex," he gasps. He can't slow down anymore, though he feels he should. The pleasure is too much; he can't let it go. "Oh fuck..."

"Yes. _Yes_. Oh god, there. Harder."

He complies, and his fingers rub circles against her, and he's found the angle that makes her catch fire inside because she's making these soft cries that would sound like fear, but for the context. He's going to make her come again. He loves it when she comes.

_God_ , he needs to come...

Gene closes his eyes and his head falls back, and he's reached the point of no return. It doesn't matter; she gives a groan that has become familiar to him, and her body starts to shake with release. And that's it. He drives into her one last time, his face contorts in that instant of aching rapture before release, and then he's there. Pulse upon pulse of pleasure: he grunts with each one – so good, _so_ fucking good – and he uses his grip on her hip to keep her moving against him while he empties himself into her.

He hasn't come so hard in years. He prays it won't be the last time.

They grow still after a while. Gene's legs feel trembly, and Alex is leaning more heavily on the desk than she was before. It's the downside to improvised sex: he could do with somewhere comfortable to collapse for a while. At least until his vision clears.

"Gene," she says. She's still breathing hard.

"Yeah?"

"Need to sit. Sorry."

He nods, though she can't see his face. When he slowly detaches himself from her, his cock is already shrinking, so fierce was his orgasm. They could really do with–

He remembers where they are and opens the right hand desk drawer. Inside is a box of tissues: the one he has ready for the more emotionally fragile visitors this office sometimes hosts. He grabs a couple and presses them against her, and she reaches to hold them in place. Then he wipes himself dry and remembers to pull his trousers up before he tries to walk anywhere. Once he's sure he's not about to fall flat on his face he guides her up and away from the desk, until she can sit back in his chair and rest her legs. She slumps with a murmur of relief.

He isn't sure what to do with himself. In the absence of other suggestions he moves around the office, retrieving their discarded clothing. It doesn't feel right that there should be awkwardness, not when moments ago they were joined in pleasure, but of course, awkwardness is inevitable.

He's buttoning up his shirt when she stirs enough to get dressed. As she stands to put her knickers back on, she half-turns away from him. He doesn't comment, though her new self-consciousness prompts a twinge of regret. He hands her bra over when she turns back, but he doesn't say anything.

Her eyes meet his and don't flinch away, which surprises him. "I'm not sorry," she says.

"Neither am I."

She gives a shrug that makes her boobs jiggle. "Feels a bit weird, though."

"Well, you've got half a box of tissues in your knickers. Can't be that comfy." The weak quip makes her smile. She's making an effort. Gene's chest squeezes again. "C'mere, Bolly." He holds his arms out, and the awkwardness fades a bit when she steps into them and returns his embrace. Her head falls against his shoulder. He closes his eyes and rubs a hand over her back.

"We don't have to make this more than it was," she murmurs. "Do we?"

He feels a little bit hollow when he murmurs back, "It's just the heat, Bols. We've been on edge for days. Just the heat."

"Right," she agrees. He thinks that's that, but she goes on, "Only you see – I can't afford...well, anything else."

"Course," he says abruptly. "No expectations. It is what it is."

She gives a sigh. "Just the heat. Nothing more."

"Just the heat."

Alex moves back, away from his arms, and she continues to get dressed. It's only a handful of minutes since they were making love, and already they've lied to each other. He isn't sure whether it's a good or a bad thing that he recognises this. But he does, and he's certain Alex does too.

When she's dressed, she gives him a smile that feels too bright. "I'm going to go home and shower," she says. "See you in Luigi's?"

"Yeah. See you there," he agrees.

She hesitates at the door, but she doesn't look back. She sets her shoulders and opens it right up, and she marches through the CID office to collect her bag from her desk. The door into the corridor rattles and thuds as it closes in her wake. Everything is harsh and bright and unforgiving.

Gene sits down heavily at his desk and reaches for his nearest bottle of Scotch. He's staring down both barrels of the rest of this evening, and there's a quiet, unhappy ache in his chest. He pours himself a generous measure and lifts his glass, toasting the empty office. For a drawn-out moment he studies the way the overhead light plays against the amber spirit, then he sighs hard and knocks the whole lot back in one.

It's going to take a different kind of heat to burn the taste and the smell of her away now.

~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my LJ/Dreamwidth journals in 2010. This version is updated.


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